


Motions

by 34m3s4



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Under-negotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21554197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/34m3s4/pseuds/34m3s4
Summary: It’s not that this is what Eames wants, it’s just that he’s found himself willing to put Arthur’s wants first—not that Arthur has to know that.Arthur, for his part, thinks the whole thing could’ve been avoided with some communication—not that he isn’t also to blame.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 126





	Motions

**Author's Note:**

> I elected not to use archive warnings because I didn't want it to seem like there was any rape in this work itself, so in light of that, quick content warning notes to elaborate on the tags:  
> Past CSA is a central theme of this and while the specifics aren’t discussed, the whole story revolves around it and there are a lot of references/implications as well as uncomfortable dream versions that ultimately go nowhere (no graphic assault scenes). Past suicidal feelings are briefly mentioned and there is a dream suicide scene that is a bit more intense than the usual Inception ‘kill yourself to leave the dream’, but suicide isn’t a central theme.
> 
> I’ve finally decided to make a brand new ao3 account and start posting these, hope you enjoy!

The bed is soft and luxurious and Eames can’t imagine a better place to bask in the afterglow. He stretches out, arching his back for just a moment, then sinks face down into the bed, warm and sated. He can feel the slight dip in the bed next to him from Arthur’s weight. It shifts as Arthur rolls closer and though he doesn’t move in response, he welcomes the contact. His eyes are closed and his breath evening out, Arthur’s body a warm point alongside him.

This hotel had been a good choice. He’ll have to remember to make note of that to Arthur when he wakes up again, already he can feel himself drifting.

One of Arthur’s hands comes down on his back, an idle weight that Eames appreciates. He appreciates it even more when it starts moving, Arthur stroking his fingers up and down slowly. It doesn’t feel like Arthur’s trying to start anything up again, is just doing his own basking. Eames certainly approves of any basking that involves an impromptu massage with himself as beneficiary.

“Did you go to private school?”

“Hmm?” The questioning noise Eames makes is barely coherent, and he doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

“You know… rich kid school. With all the pomp and circumstance and uniforms.”

“Public school,” Eames’ voice is slightly muffled by the pillows around him.

“Hm?”

Eames sighs internally, but turns his head just enough that he should be clearer. “We call those public schools.”

“Oh.” Arthur settles back and Eames laments the loss of the lazy back stroking. “Well, public schools here are… not that. They’re the free ones anyone can go to, that most people go to.”

Eames nods. “I know, I have spent some time in America. Plus your media is rather pervasive.”

Arthur lets it drop and Eames settles again. Not that he ever got unsettled really, he barely even moved. But he lets himself return drifting, no longer listening for the threads of a conversation.

Arthur’s hand finds his back again and Eames lets out a pleased hum, preening under the attention as much as he can without moving or speaking. He knows Arthur knows him well enough to see it.

“I thought we might go under,” Arthur says, and there’s a certain hint of suggestiveness to his voice that has Eames at attention.

“Oh?”

He feels Arthur’s hand slip further down than before, reaching the small of Eames’ back. Still light, but instead of an absentminded touch, this is a deliberate tease with just the tips of his fingers.

“Indulge in a fantasy…”

“Oh,” and this is practically a purr, “fantasies and the indulging of them _is_ a speciality of mine.”

“Is it?”

“Mh-hm. Area of particular study. What did you have in mind?”

“Roleplay.”

That’s an encouraging start and Eames eagerly awaits the details.

“A… sexy private—or, public school thing. You know, strict headmaster and naughty schoolboy?”

It’s not the first time someone’s asked him for this. It’s always an American who does. There’s some preoccupation there, with the English public schools. Eames has never bothered to analyze it. Unusual for him, he typically likes to analyze and pick apart any facets of behavior and inclination that he can see. But not for this, this is a subject he generally tries to avoid devoting too much mind to.

Eames doesn’t let any reluctance cross his face, keeps his body loose and lax in the bed. Let it never be said he isn’t a good actor.

“Sure,” he lies smoothly.

Usually he’d say no. It isn’t something he wants or likes and he’d typically have no qualms about denying his partner. Qualms about being affected by it, sure, but no issue with saying no. He wouldn’t give a reason, he’d distract them, but if pressed he’d make an offhand joke about how sadly unsexy the public schools really were, maybe throw in something slightly self deprecating, then move to another topic smoothly, his partner none the wiser.

No one had ever called him on it, and he had never told anyone the truth.

But Arthur.

He doesn’t want to say no to Arthur. Doesn’t want to tell him why he wants to say no in general. Thinks that maybe, just maybe he can do it. For Arthur.

And that’s dangerous, giving Arthur that power. But he doesn’t have to know that either.

The smile Arthur rewards him with has him feeling that maybe he’s right. If he can just hold it together and get through this, it will be worth it.

Eames insists on Arthur being the dreamer for this one. Though, he does it sneakily, trying to hold his cards close. Arthur initially suggests Eames, as he’s the one with more familiarity with the setting. And normally, that would make sense. But not for this. Eames is too worried what may pop up in his subconscious if he’s the dreamer. Can’t let Arthur know they may need a maze to hold off his projections, for sex dreams are usually never at risk like that. This is different and Arthur can’t know.

So he says it should be Arthur, it’s Arthur’s fantasy. He might create something too dull, something that doesn’t fit Arthur’s vision. _Besides_ , he tells Arthur, _we both know who the better architect is_. The compliment is true and also serves to handily distract Arthur from pressing any further.

Arthur concedes that it isn’t really about perfect accuracy anyway and so he relents. Googles ‘public schools England’ and Eames is sure plans up a whole school in his head, preening internally over the architecture praise.

They set up the PASIV and lie next to each other in bed. When Eames awakens in the dream he finds himself in what looks at first glance to be a very standard looking headmaster’s office. All wood paneling and heavy curtains and the oppressive feeling of power and archaity. There are bookshelves along the walls and a stately desk. The decor is decidedly grand, but in that understated way that shows it’s of true wealth, not some flashy new money attempt at imitation. It’s only on second pass, with an eye for details, that the clever little intricacies Arthur favors start to be noticed.

Eames slips into his forge the moment he hits the dream. Usually he has practice runs first. Or, in the case of sex dreams, he’s initially himself before he slips into it. Like a real world seduction, _oh darling, let me go slip into something a little more comfortable._

Not now. He knows this form. This body, these clothes. He’s in it before Arthur has a chance to orient himself.

Arthur.

He sees him now, standing by the desk. He looks much the same as he does in real life. It helps that he wears suits. They’re costume enough for this, even if he’s a little too trendy and bespoke to truly fit the archetypal headmaster role.

“Oh—“ Arthur sounds surprised, “Jesus, you’re kind of young, aren’t you?”

Eames rocks back on his heels, considering. He’s forged himself at age fifteen. Or, the erotic ideal of himself at fifteen. Smoothing over any blemishes and adolescent awkwardness. He hates that there’s an erotic ideal of fifteen, but that’s the game at hand. “You did say this was your fantasy, right? Schoolboy and headmaster?”

“Sure, but not…” Arthur trails off, looking Eames over again. Assessingly, not with the heat of arousal. It looks more like a proper headmaster’s gaze than a lecherous sexy headmaster. “Not a… _boy_.”

“How old do you want me to be?”

“Well _legal_ certainly. American legal. An adult.”

Eames lets the forge shift around him, settling into a fantasy version of himself at eighteen. “Better?”

Arthur nods, looking a little unsure still. “You still look… young.”

“I was in possession of a rather boyish face that took some growing into.”

Arthur doesn’t reply. He looks tense and Eames isn’t sure what to do about it. He thinks he’s normally better at this, at soothing out Arthur’s edges, but it’s just that he has to focus on his own right now. Hold himself together, keep up the pressure and hold his form.

But the awkward lingering silence won’t do. He doesn’t want to be here a moment longer than he absolutely must.

“Sir?”

Arthur starts—just slightly. A frown on his face, but that fits. He’s the authority figure, the disciplinarian.

“Sir, you said you wanted to see me?”

Arthur nods once, firmly. Doesn’t say anything, not yet.

So that’s how he wants to play this, then. He’s the judgement on high and Eames is the poor boy begging at his feet.

“Sir…?” Eames softens his voice even more, puts in a wobbly little edge. This barely a man version of himself is scared, but resigned. His body may be eighteen, but internally he’s pulling on the strings of a much younger version of himself. He’s a boy who understands the world is wicked, but doesn’t know how to manipulate it. Not yet.

He’ll learn with time.

“Yes, Mr. Eames?” Arthur’s voice has authority, a natural one. He doesn’t have to act to command attention, respect. It’s there, inherent in him.

Not that he doesn’t work at it. Not that he doesn’t have self doubt. He’s human after all. But he has an essence of power to him. One that Eames covets and respects and in a normal situation finds unbelievably sexy.

Right now it’s all he can do to go through the motions.

“I…” He trails off, all youthful hesitance. A hard swallow, teeth worrying his lower lip, drawing Arthur’s eye, then, “I’m here to… do as you asked, sir.”

“Oh?”

Eames nods.

“And what is it I asked?”

Eames shifts a little, side to side. Then he starts towards Arthur. He embodies this boy’s nerves in his very walk. Flighty and unsure, but still, ultimately resigned.

He drops to his knees with no fanfare, but also without any polished seduction.

Eames lets tears well up and start to fall down his face. One advantage of forgery, he muses to himself, is attractive crying. All big wet eyes and pink flushed cheeks and tear trails positioned just so. No sniffling dripping nose or red blotchy skin or burn in the back of your throat.

He glances up at Arthur under his lashes, shyly. Reaches a lightly trembling hand out towards Arthur’s trousers, aiming for the button.

“Eames?”

“Yes, sir?” He makes sure his voice waivers just a little and freezes his hand in place.

“Are you okay?” And that sounds like genuine concern.

Eames stops crying, letting his eyes clear as he focuses up on Arthur’s face and drops his hand. “Is it not what you wanted?”

Arthur looks worried, then taken aback. Shocked almost. “You… were crying on purpose?”

“I thought hesitation was part of the role.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Eames hums consideringly. “No? So I want it?”

“What?” It comes out a little harsh, almost snappy. “Of course you want it.”

Eames lets a coy little smile play over his lips, humming again. “So I’m the Lolita sort, then? I want it so very bad…”

“Lolita didn’t want it,” Arthur says, sounding a little hollow.

“What?” Eames had started to reach for Arthur’s trousers again and again finds himself stopping.

“In Nabokov. The novel. It’s told from Humbert’s point of view and he wants her to want it, but that’s because Humbert’s a _pedophile_. Lolita didn’t want it.”

“Right.” Eames feels thrown off kilter and he hates it. Hates it even more given the scenario they’re in. “So… you’re the dashing young headmaster and I’ve been lusting after you for ages now?” It comes out far more questioning than he’d like, but given how Arthur’s been reacting thus far it seems better to hash out the details of his fantasy more explicitly.

“I… guess,” Arthur says, hesitant in a way Eames isn’t used to hearing him be.

He doesn’t know what to say and so he kneels there, silent and uncomfortable and unsure and hating every moment of this. Arthur’s still and silent above him.

Finally, Eames sighs. “Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.” There’s no seduction in his voice, of either the eager or reluctant variety. He sounds resigned and he can’t be bothered to change that. He _is_ resigned and none of the roles he’s tried so far have resulted in anything good. He doesn’t make eye contact with Arthur, just stares directly at Arthur’s fly and waits for a command. Something to focus on, something he can do and get it done and wake up.

“Do you even want to do this?”

“Sure,” he still doesn’t sound in the least enthused, but he can’t help it. It’s like the walls are closing in around him and if he thinks about it too hard he’ll panic. The veil of disinterest is the only thing keeping him steady. “But you haven’t told me what to do.”

“Eames.” Arthur sounds frustrated so Eames looks up. Arthur’s not quite scowling down at him, but it’s something akin to that.

“It’s your fantasy. Tell me what you want.”

“I don’t want… _this!_ ”

“Right,” Eames is a bit annoyed now and he leans into it. It’s safer than the other emotions he has bubbling up under his skin. He stands, no point in staying on his knees if that’s not how this is going to go. “Then what _do_ you want?”

“I want—I—it’s supposed to be mild powerplay, right? Like—like I’m your boss and you’re my naughty secretary and you blow me under my desk while I’m working and then I fuck you over it and you can say no, but you don’t want to because you want it and you want me and—and there’s an edge of a power dynamic, but we’re both consenting adults and we want it and it’s not— _this!_ ”

“Well then why didn’t you ask for that?” Eames feels far more annoyed now, knowing that this entire time they could have been having incredible businessman and secretary sex. He wants that, he could have _had_ that if Arthur had just said.

Arthur flings a hand out, a testament to how far gone in frustration he is. “Because the school thing has—has those elements and it’s a sex fantasy cliche! Aren’t you the one always saying I don’t have any imagination? It was easy to say and I thought you’d get the dynamic, not think I wanted to assault you as a child!”

Eames stiffens despite himself, unable to completely school his reactions. But he sniffs haughtily, as if this whole business is below him. “Quite.”

“Eames, what the fuck? Is this honestly what you think of me? You think I—you seriously think I have some latent fucking… pedophile rapist fantasy? Because I know I didn’t ask for anything like that, but that’s how you’re acting.” Arthur’s angry and confused and disgusted and it’s a mess. It’s too much of a mess for Eames to pick apart all the little threads of and address. Not when his whole self is threatening to come apart at the seams.

He wants to rage, to yell back, but he doesn’t know what to say. He wants to apologize. He wants to cry. To run, to hide. He wants to confess and to lie and to tell the truth and he wants to be swept up in Arthur’s arms and he wants to never be touched again so long as he lives.

He’s a ball of messy contradictions and he’s only barely keeping the lid on it all.

The only thing he knows with any clarity is that he can’t stay here, not a moment longer. But the kick isn’t due for ages yet. It’s a sex dream, they always give themselves plenty of time. It’s better to lounge about in dream afterglow than get yanked out prematurely.

“Just—shoot us out, would you?” He doesn’t have a gun or he’d have done it long before now.

“I don’t have a gun,” Arthur’s rage seems to have cooled slightly, but it’s still simmering under the surface, “It’s a sex dream, we didn’t need one.”

“Right.” He casts an eye about for an easy way out and then there, glinting on Arthur’s desk, a large ornamental letter opener.

It’ll have to do.

Eames has his sleeves up and wrists cut before Arthur can even speak. And maybe it was a bit impulsive. It’s a slow, painful death. He drops to the ground and Arthur gathers him in his arms.

“Jesus—oh fuck, Eames.”

Eames shakes and realizes he’s slipped back into the younger forge at some point without realizing it.

He remembers being fifteen, in a room not unlike this one. He remembers wanting to do exactly this, but he didn’t. Maybe there’s something almost poetic about doing it now, in a dream. Some full circle time loop catharsis that will strike him fully later.

Arthur’s arms tighten around him and his vision’s going all fuzzy. The pain is a bitch, as is the length of time it takes to bleed out, but dying in Arthur’s arms isn’t the worst way to go. He thinks he might not mind if that’s how he goes out for real, topside. There’s a certain macabre romance to it.

The last thing he sees before he blinks awake topside is Arthur’s ashen face staring down at him, saying something he can’t quite focus enough to understand.

He wakes before Arthur and his wrists throb with a vague phantom pain that lessens as he reorients himself to reality. He takes out his line and spools it, tucking it back into place in the PASIV. He’s off the bed by the time Arthur wakes. Delayed given he didn’t kill himself in the dream until Eames was already dead. He vaguely wonders if Arthur used the letter opener too.

More likely, he dreamed himself up a gun. Something Eames didn’t have the patience or mind to wait for.

“I’m going to shower,” he announces, not waiting for a response. He grabs his suitcase and drags it into the bathroom with him, locking the door behind him. He’s never locked Arthur out before. Never dragged his entire suitcase in with him either, but he hasn’t made up his mind what clothes he’ll change into and he wants access to all his options in the bathroom ready for him.

It takes him a while of just sitting on the lid of the toilet, still fully clothed and staring at the shower, before he finally works up the nerve to endure the vulnerability of nudity. His skin is positively crawling at this point, which helps urge him on.

He strips efficiently and turns the water as hot as he can possibly stand. He turns to his luggage and pulls his pocket pistol from one of the small side compartments and sets it in easy reach in the shower, but away from the spray of the water.

The water burns and he knows his entire body’s surely going bright pink, but it’s what he needs. He can’t imagine anyone else’s hands on his body when every bit of his skin is too busy smarting from the heat.

Then he begins to wash. Neatly, orderly. No lingering nor gentleness, but not rough either. Dispassionate and methodical. Every inch of himself scrubbed and rinsed. He realizes he’s bathing himself like he’s cleaning a gun. He can only hope to put himself back together at the end as well as he does his Browning.

By the time he’s done he can see his feet are almost red, but all he can feel is a sense of relief, of cleanliness.

He dries in the same manner that he washed, then stands there naked. It’s steamy in the bathroom, with how hot he had the water the fan can’t manage to keep up the ventilation. He doesn’t want to put clothes on quite yet, he’s worried he may start sweating. And besides, he still hasn’t quite decided what to wear.

His clothes are a bit of a jumble in his bag so he crouches down and starts sorting through them. Considers his pants options first.

He briefly entertains the notion of tight boxer briefs with loose boxers overtop and then trousers. Double up the usual layers and allow himself better protection. But he discards that, it’s not as if Arthur will accost him the moment he steps out of the bathroom.

He settles on the tighter boxer briefs. They mold to his body and it’s comforting, that he can so specifically feel that they’re on, that they’re covering him.

Next he grabs a tshirt. It’s an old one, soft cotton, but it shrunk in the wash so it clings to his body. Not overly tight, like it’s too small, just snug. It’s comforting in much the same way the boxer briefs are.

He brushes his teeth thoroughly, but doesn’t bother to do anything to his hair. He’s looking for comfort rather than any particular aesthetic choice.

He considers socks, but decides against it. There’s something inherently more vulnerable feeling about the idea of being in naught but his stockinged feet, even if it’s more covered than being barefoot. He doesn’t examine why he feels this, doesn’t want to.

Finally, he looks at his trousers and shirts. Jeans hold some appeal, the structure and thickness of denim pressing against his skin. An armored layer that holds him in and keeps everything else out. It’s not the most comfortable though, and so he looks at trackies next. Soft and loose and warm.

He’s got his structured layers underneath. Soft and loose overtop does sound nice.

The trackies slip on easily, and he follows them with a jumper. Chunky knit, soft too.

The rest of his clothes get shoved back into his bag with little ceremony. He’ll deal with them later.

He takes a final look at himself in the mirror now that it’s mostly clear of steam. He’s lost most of the pinkness to his skin, at least, the skin that’s still visible. His hair and clothes lend him a relaxed look, but he can see a lingering stiffness in his body and face. Nothing overt, but enough that he, and Arthur, can see. Taking a deep breath, he deliberately rolls his shoulders back, consciously relaxing his muscles and telling his body to cooperate. It does.

He strides out of the bathroom to face whatever fallout would come.

Arthur is sitting waiting for him. He’s stripped down from his suit he wore for the dream. Peeled off the layers and left himself in his trousers and oxford, though he’s rolled up the sleeves and unbuttoned it enough to reveal his undershirt.

“You locked yourself in.”

Now alarms are positively blaring in Eames’ head and every bit of self imposed relaxation drops. How would Arthur know that unless he’d tried to get in? Somewhere along the line it seems Eames had made a lethal miscalculation regarding Arthur.

He should have put jeans and shoes on. Better protection, easier to leave quickly.

“I heard the lock when you went in and when you came out,” Arthur explains, without being asked.

He heard the lock, Eames thinks distantly to himself. And that’s Arthur all over. Aware of the details. That’s alright. Besides, Arthur could have picked the lock if he’d really wanted to get in. The lock had been more symbolic, a flimsy token to ease Eames’ mind.

He’s sure his mask slipped in that moment, allowing Arthur to see some of his panic, but now that he’s got a handle on it and is no longer fearful that he’d misjudged Arthur so completely, he schools his expression back to something neutral. Mildly dispassionate.

“We need to talk about this,” Arthur says. Sitting, watching Eames.

Eames makes a vague humming noise and walks over to the little station in the room where there’s a miniature coffee pot and electric kettle. He puts water on and does his best to act as if selecting a tea bag from the little variety box the hotel provided is a fascinating task that requires the utmost attention.

“Eames.”

“Arthur,” he says back, finally looking over at him.

Arthur doesn’t look impressed.

He sighs, letting his cold disinterested act drop just a bit. “Look, can you let me do this first?”

Arthur’s gaze is somewhat calculating, but he does seem swayed by the fact that Eames has allowed the mask to slip. Revealing a chink in the armor to prove sincerity—Arthur responds to that. He knows that means Eames is serious. So he nods and waits as Eames fixes his tea.

Eames isn’t sure he even wants tea right now. Later, certainly, once they’ve had this out and he has to sit in his feelings about the whole thing. But right now it’s a bit premature. Really, he was just looking for something to buy himself a little time.

Not nearly enough, though. Far too quickly he finds himself with a mug in hand and no better handle on how he’s going to approach this conversation.

He settles sitting on the edge of the table, still standing, but leaning his weight back. He has the mug cradled between his hands and the heat is somewhat soothing at least.

“So… what was that?”

“I do believe that was your fantasy,” he’s being purposefully obtuse and he knows it. He knows Arthur knows it too and is likely to be rather unimpressed.

“That was certainly _not_ my fantasy. I didn’t ask for that.”

“I recall the words ‘headmaster’, ‘schoolboy’, and ‘public school’ were all key components of your request.”

“And _I recall_ a marked absence of ‘rape’ and ‘pedophilia’. I _do believe_ those were your additions.”

While technically true, it turns Eames’ stomach to think of that. That he himself added those things in. It almost makes him feel like in some roundabout way everything that’s happened stemmed from himself. As though it was by his own hand. That he hadn’t been taken advantage of by an older man with his own agenda, but rather there was something inherent in Eames that drew out those desires and interests in others. Like he was the agent setting it into motion.

_Look at you,_ the man’s voice rings in Eames’ head, _a born slag._

He makes an abortive motion to take a sip of tea. Wants an excuse not to speak, but as the mug draws nearer to his mouth he thinks he might vomit the moment it crosses his lips.

Arthur, ever observant, ever cataloguing the details, watches. Eames’ skin is starting to crawl again and the panic pressure starting up. Escape sounds nice, but there’s no way to run. Not without causing a scene and doing even more damage to his relationship.

His relationship. Which, he realizes with dawning horror, he may have just completely destroyed.

Of course Arthur’s angry and disgusted. That’s one of the very things Eames loves about him. That he _doesn’t_ desire this. And now Eames has gone and fucked it all up.

He needs to figure out what to say, how to explain. How to make sure Arthur doesn’t sit there and think every disgusting thing about him that he’s thought about himself. He can’t bear that.

“Eames,” Arthur says, but this time without an edge. Soothing, but questioning.

“It’s not…” Eames starts, then stops. He takes a breath and tries again, “Not the... first time I’ve been in that scenario.”

“You’ve forged—“

“Not forged,” Eames cuts him off, “Topside. For real.” His tone is clipped and the words sharp.

“Eames,” Arthur imbues his name with so much feeling. The dawning understanding and his pain at having uncovered this secret. The sadness and the anger and the questions.

“I don’t want to talk about the details.” _So please don’t ask_ , goes unsaid.

Arthur hears him, though. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Eames nods once, curtly. He appreciates it, but he can’t think about that right now. Not if he has any hope of keeping level enough to attempt this explanation. “My point is that… I have experience with a specific scenario. So it’s not so much that I thought… this of you specifically. But rather, that when you asked for this I have… a particular and specific association.”

Arthur nods, patient now.

“So that’s… that,” Eames finishes rather lamely. He isn’t sure how to verbalize everything else that’s churning about within him.

“There’s something I need to know,” Arthur says.

“Hm?”

“Did you want to do this?”

Eames doesn’t answer, avoids eye contact. He knows that’s answer enough, but there’s nothing he can say. He doesn’t want to lie, but he doesn’t want to tell the truth either.

“Eames?”

Unfortunately, it seems Arthur isn’t willing to let this go.

“I was willing… for you.” It’s the truth, but it isn’t what Arthur’s asking. Eames knows this, but hopes Arthur will accept it, as it’s all he can manage to say.

“But you didn’t want it?”

Eames doesn’t answer.

Arthur’s voice has a heartbreaking sadness to it now. “Fuck.”

Eames brings the mug up to his lips and stares at the window. He isn’t seeing out of it any more than he’s drinking tea, but the motions are all he has.

“I’m not trying to make this about me, I know it’s about you and your trauma,” Arthur says.

Eames flinches slightly at the word. Hates to think of himself as a victim like that. Trauma. He’s the victim of trauma. He hates it.

Arthur notices and quickly amends his statement, “Your past.”

That’s an acceptable way to phrase it so Eames settles, waiting to hear Arthur out.

“But I need to say something pertaining to… my part in this. Or—the way it’s impacted me. Us. You didn’t want to do this, but you did it anyway. For me.”

Eames dreads where he fears this is headed. “You didn’t force me, I was _willing_ to for you. I chose that. And I didn’t give you any relevant information as to potential… ramifications.”

Arthur has his hands up, palms out. Trying to soothe and shush him. “I know, let me say this. I’m not trying to make this about me, but I need you to understand how this feels for me. It _feels_ like I’ve forced you—“ He speaks faster as he sees Eames tensing up to speak again. “Even if I didn’t. But I went in not knowing and I got placed in that role. Eames, I know you were trying to do this _for_ me and I can’t say how… how much it means that you were willing to endure it, for me. But I don’t want you to endure and I don’t want to be that person to you. I don’t think you want me to be that person either.”

Eames shakes his head.

“But if you don’t say no about things like this, I could end up unwittingly being that person. And I don’t think either of us could live with that.”

Everything Arthur’s saying makes sense and he agrees. Indeed, his stomach turns again as it sinks in how it could have gone. Arthur could have played along with the first version of things and then Eames would have had to figure out how to live with that. He’s a little unsure how he would’ve managed, despite his skills at compartmentalizing.

“If I said no, I would’ve had to explain why. You’d have asked.”

Arthur looks a little pained and nods. “Yeah… yeah, I probably would have and I’m sorry. But please know now, you can always say no and I won’t demand an explanation. Just a ‘no’ is enough and we’ll move on.”

Eames is hit by a flood of emotion and swallows hard to keep it from overwhelming him. “Thank you,” he says softly.

“Of course. May I…?” Arthur trails off and opens his arms, taking a single step towards Eames.

Eames sets his mug down and nods. Arthur’s arms around him are a welcome relief and he drops his head to rest on Arthur’s shoulder, tucking his face against his neck. It feels safe.

Arthur’s hand rubs his back and he relaxes into the embrace, he feels more held together braced by Arthur’s arms than he did when he was trying to do it alone. He feels like maybe, just maybe he could fall to pieces a bit right here in Arthur’s arms and Arthur would make sure to catch all the pieces and help him put himself back together.

Strangely, the thought has him calming down more and suddenly he thinks he’ll be okay. The immanent breakdown starts to recede.

“My little Ruger’s in the shower… needs to be put away.”

Arthur’s body tenses. He realizes his spectacular and impulsive dream suicide must still be fresh in Arthur’s memory. “Not like that,” he quickly assures him, “I just felt… safer with it there. Settled my nerves a bit to have it immediately at hand.”

Arthur relaxes again. “Okay. I’ll put it away.” He pulls back and presses a kiss to Eames’ forehead, then goes to the bathroom to take care of the gun. Once it’s safely stashed away he walks back to Eames who is busy staring at his rapidly cooling tea with some distaste.

“You want PG Tips, don’t you?”

“This hotel doesn’t provide PG Tips,” Eames replies. Of course that’s what he wants, but it doesn’t matter because it’s not what he has and he’s in no mood for a shopping run. Especially as they aren’t in England so it will require research to track down what store carries it.

“We’ll need to rectify that.”

“What?” He watches Arthur walk towards the nightstand. “What are you doing?”

“I’m calling the hotel, letting them know we require a box of PG Tips delivered to our room.”

“I don’t think that’s a service they provide.”

Arthur seems completely unconcerned. “I’ll tell them my boyfriend is British and knows his teas and the selection they provided is unacceptable.”

“That still doesn’t make this something they do.”

“I’ll throw enough money at them to make it worth their while.”

Eames is touched, but really it’s a lot of bother over something very small. “That’s really not necessary.”

“Eames, this is something I _can_ do.”

And now it’s Eames’ turn to hear what isn’t being said. _Eames, I’m a compulsive fixer and I can’t fix this. I can’t fix this so please, let me have control to do what I can._

So Eames nods. “Sounds like this boyfriend of yours is rather demanding.” 

He means it as a joke. Something to tell Arthur that he accepts the plan as well as lighten the mood. But he sees preparation in Arthur’s body language and realizes he’s likely about to mount a defense of Eames to Eames and that won’t do at all. 

“You’ll need to tell them he also requires an assortment of delectable treats from one of those fancy little patisseries they have around here,” he says it in a more teasing tone, but he is also serious. If Arthur’s going to pull out all the stops for a box of tea he might as well go full on with it.

Arthur graces him with a small smile. “Anything else?”

“No, that should do it for the moment.”

Eames settles on the bed while Arthur calls down and makes his demands. It turns into a negotiation involving rather obscene amounts of money, but Arthur does enjoy a good negotiation and money isn’t really an object for them.

“What a considerate boyfriend you are, to this demanding beau,” Eames says once Arthur hangs up the phone.

“He deserves it.”

“What a lucky man.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

Eames pauses a moment, then says, “We both are.”

Arthur smiles even wider. “We both are.”

Eames settles back in bed further, watching Arthur move around the room. “You will tip whatever poor employee has been forced into this well, won’t you?”

“Of course I will.” Eames sees he’s already stacking bills into a neat little fold. “They’ll deserve it for running the errand, plus I never know what my extremely deserving and demanding boyfriend might require next so I need to provide the proper incentive for potential later errands.”

“Excellent planning and preparation as always, I see.”

Arthur makes a noise of agreement and changes into more comfortable loungewear, correctly assuming Eames will want to stay in their room for the rest of the day. “What do you want to do now?”

Eames considers this. “I think… really I’d just like to spend the rest of the day in bed watching trashy television.”

“We can do that.”

“You don’t need to—“

“I want to,” Arthur interrupts, vehement in his sentiment, before he looks a little questioning. “Unless… you don’t want me to—“

“Darling,” Eames interrupts now, “I’ll have you know I require your presence in bed with me. What I was going to say is you needn’t force yourself to pay attention to the programme for my sake. Bring your tablet to bed and focus on whatever you’d like. Just make appropriately shocked noises when I commentate on the drama.”

Arthur grins wide enough to show his dimples. “Done.”

Eames searches for a suitably trashy and drama-filled show while Arthur receives their special room service delivery and gets everything settled for a lazy day in. They settle into bed together and Arthur kisses his forehead again when Eames cuddles into his side. He’s busy reading something on his tablet when Eames makes his first observation about the show and the perfectly shocked gasp Arthur gives in response has Eames laughing so hard he tears up. When he finally regains his ability to breathe he curls against Arthur again. “I love you.”

Arthur sets down his tablet and pulls Eames tighter against himself. “I love you, too.”

Already the events of the morning feel like a distant memory. Eames knows they aren’t and he knows it’s not going to be simple, no matter how good at compartmentalizing he is. But Arthur knows now. Maybe not everything, not the details. But he knows and that’s more than anyone else does.

He knows and the world hasn’t come crashing down. He knows and he’s still here, still loves Eames.

He’s here and it’s okay. They’ll be okay.

Eames isn’t sure he’ll ever be ready to tell Arthur more, but he also knows that Arthur won’t demand to know any more than he already does.

He tucks his head beneath Arthur’s chin and lets himself relax, it feels like he’s breathing again for the first time since this whole thing began. Maybe breathing even better than before that.

Arthur’s body is a warm point against him and he’s relaxing in their shared hotel bed and he’s ready to luxuriate and bask in the feelings of safety and love. He hadn’t necessarily made all the right choices to get here, but he’s glad for the destination he’s reached. He’ll have to tell Arthur that when he wakes up, he can feel himself starting to drift. Lulled by the sounds of Arthur’s breathing and an absurd argument on the show.

The last thing he remembers before he drops off is the feeling of Arthur’s hand rubbing gently over his back.


End file.
